“This,” said Edith, “is childish. What you mean I do not know, nor do I care to. You seem to hint at seclusion. I do not feel inclined for society, but a seclusion of your making is not to my taste. You must yourself go elsewhere to seek this seclusion. This is mine, and here I intend to bring the friends whom I wish to have with me. I can only regard your present course as the act of a thoroughly infatuated man. You have had things all your own way thus far, and seem to have come to regard this place as yours, and never to have counted upon any thing but acquiescence on my part in your plans.” Wiggins fastened his solemn eyes upon her, and murmured, “True.” “It is useless, therefore,” said Edith, loftily, “for you to make any opposition. It will only be foolish, and you will ultimately be ruined by it.” Wiggins rose to his feet. “It is only a waste of time,” said he. “I confess you are different from what I anticipated. You do not know. You can not understand. You are too rash and self-confident. I can not tell you what my plans are; I can only tell you my wishes.” Edith rose to her feet, and stood opposite, with her large eyes flaming from her white face. “This insolence,” said she, “has lasted too long. It is you who must obey me--not I you. You speak as though there were no such thing as law.” “I said nothing about obedience,” said Wiggins, in a mournful voice, which, in spite of herself, affected Edith very strangely. “I spoke of plans which could not be communicated to you yet, and of my wishes.” “But I,” said Edith, mildly, “wish you to understand that I have my own wishes. You make use of a tone which I can not tolerate for a moment. I have only one thing more to say, and that is to repeat my former direction. I _must_ have Miss Plympton here tomorrow, and preparations for her _must_ be made. Once for all, you must understand that between you and me there is absolutely nothing in common; and I tell you now that it is my intention to dispense with your services at the earliest possible date. I will not detain you any longer.” Saying this, she waved her hand toward the door, and then resumed her seat. As for Wiggins, he looked at her with his usual solemn gaze during these remarks. His bowed form seemed to be bent more as he listened to her words. When she ceased and sat down he stood listening still, as though he heard some echo to her words. Edith did not look up, but turned her eyes in another direction, and so did not see the face that was still turned toward her. But if she had looked there she would have seen a face which bore a deeper impress than ever of utter woe. In a few moments he turned and left the room, as silently as he came. Before retiring that night Edith called Mrs. Dunbar, and gave her some directions about preparing another bedroom and the drawing-room. To her orders, which were somewhat positive, Mrs. Dunbar listened in silence, and merely bowed in reply.